


Man of the Country

by rainchant



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainchant/pseuds/rainchant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire makes a joke at the wrong time, holds court with a bottle of wine and one subject, and learns a little about Enjolras's views on France and on Grantaire himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man of the Country

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I've moved from fanfiction.net to a03. If you have too, this is the same story that's on the other site. I wrote this at 2 am after watching Les Miserables again, hope you enjoy!

As a general rule, Enjolras never laid hands on him; today, he had bodily dragged Grantaire out of the meeting room and down to the first floor of the Café Musain by the collar of his shirt. All because of one small joke about the monarchy that Bahorel and Bossuet had found amusing. That, and perhaps also the fact that Grantaire was already drunk before noon.

In retrospect, as he nursed his headache hours later with a large glass of water and a small bottle of wine, all the warning signs had been there: the quiet café, the tense shoulders, that fanatical devotion probably at full pitch in his face and voice, but those kinds of things were hard to notice when you couldn’t even see straight. As a time to joke, it was not opportune. 

Perhaps he was banned from the meeting room, but damned if he was leaving the Café Musain entirely today. The vestiges of his pride, inspired by the water, demanded that he stay to show that Grantaire, capital R, could only be pushed around so much.

But damned if he couldn’t still feel Enjolras’s hand firmly holding onto his collar, nails digging into the skin when Grantaire hadn’t been able to navigate the steps quickly enough. His leader let go as soon as Grantaire was in the vicinity of a chair (and he’d almost made it into the chair too), but he was still not free. That phantom hand confined him to the café as surely as anything.

His wine was gone, but now seemed to be the perfect time for another drink.

The owner of the café had two daughters, both very pretty: the black-haired one was serving today. Grantaire waved her over with a passably charming smile. “My dear mademoiselle,” he said, “Morpheus I would name you, were you not so lovely. Instead, instead I name you Lethe if you will bring me another bottle to drown my thoughts.”

The girl didn’t look impressed, but she did bring him another bottle, so that was something. There were still red marks on his shoulder, near his neck, and they still burned. Grantaire took a fast swig and nearly choked on the sour. “Forgetting is not as sweet as the world would have me think!” he said. “What a life. Everything hurts in the end. I’m lucky I don’t care for any of it.”

The scruffy man sitting two tables over looked at him, and Grantaire took it as encouragement. “Why care about anything?” he asked. “No, answer me. What good does it do to care about who rules us? One king is the same as another. Why should we bother debating philosophies? All of my philosophies are sound, and they come from the bottle! What is love when it can be bought at the docks? Honestly!”

The scruffy man grunted and looked away. This poor soul was, obviously, not ready to hear the wisdom that Grantaire doled out. “I don’t understand it,” Grantaire muttered, and saw Enjolras walking slowly down the steps of the Café Musain.

It was usually best to pretend not to see his leader until he got close, but Grantaire never seemed to be able to stop staring at him whenever he appeared. Now was no different, and they stared each other down as Enjolras pulled out a chair and sat across the table from Grantaire. There were no speeches, no sighs, not so much as an angry glance. His leader seemed to be almost examining Grantaire as he would a map or a sign. It was disconcerting, and Grantaire couldn’t stop a shiver. How manly and confident that was.  
“You don’t seem to be on fire today, Apollo,” he said jokingly. “Has the sun gotten too much to bear? Come on, talk to me about the revolution. I’ve been holding court down here, with rhetoric almost as impressive as yours, but I am always eager to see a speech done properly.”

Enjolras didn’t say a word, didn’t even rise to the joke. Something was wrong. “Of course, it may be that you won’t talk because of what I said earlier,” he continued. “And on review, perhaps it was an ill-timed comment. I apologize for it.” This got no response as well. Something was truly wrong. Grantaire leaned forward. “What has happened? Please, Enjolras, you bastard, tell me what it is. Has someone died, has someone revolted, or have you finally given up on France?”

His leader stared him in the eye, and Grantaire swallowed. “Grantaire,” Enjolras said, “sometimes I look at you and I see France.”

“…sorry?”

His leader did not flinch, and he spoke his words almost as though he had rehearsed them. Ridiculous, of course. Enjolras never had to rehearse anything. “There are days that you remind me of parts of my country, Grantaire. The cynical people, the nonbelievers, the ones who drink to forget their cares, the ones who will never realize their potential and never contribute as much as they could. At times, I feel as though most of France feels like you.

“Another group that was supposed to join us for the revolution has decided to disband. That’s what has happened, Grantaire. They lost faith. They abandoned the cause. They abandoned their country.”

Enjolras shook his head and hesitated before his next words. “You are a drunken idiot, Grantaire, but you are at least always here. Even when we wish you wouldn’t be. No one can fault you for quitting.”

Grantaire’s pulse was racing as his mind made several connections. “You look at me and you see France?”

A scowl darkened his leader’s bright face. “Tell me you aren’t so drunk still that you haven’t heard a word I said.”

“No, no, no, I heard what you said, and you said that I remind you of France. But if I recall right, you love France.” Maybe the temperature in the room had risen; that would explain the sweat on Grantaire’s forehead right now.

“Of course I love France. Always, and with all my heart.”

It took a couple of swallows before Grantaire could speak properly. “So you love France, with all of your heart, and you see France when you look at me…?”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I’ve said both of those things. You are the slothful masses of France. Aren’t you listening?”

It was as though Enjolras never heard a damn thing that came out of his mouth. Grantaire had to fight the urge to reach for his bottle. “But you still love them?” he pressed.

“Yes, I do. You and they could do so much, if you tried. Grantaire, if you were not yourself, you could do so much for France.”

Well, that comment would sting later, but right now he didn’t care. “But I am myself, and I am here,” he reminded Enjolras.

“Yes, Grantaire. You are yourself, and you are always here.” The smallest of smiles appeared on his leader’s face, and Grantaire nearly stopped breathing. “You believe in nothing, and yet you are always here. Sometimes I think that if I can convert you to the revolution, I can inspire anyone in the world.”

“You can inspire anyone,” Grantaire said immediately. “I believe you can do anything.”

Long after Enjolras had left to rejoin the revolutionaries upstairs, Grantaire sat downstairs nursing his bottle of wine, muttering to himself. “I don’t believe in revolution. I don’t believe in love. I don’t believe in revolution. I don’t believe in love.”


End file.
